The Last Crusaders
by Ian Jenkins
Summary: A displaced squad of Scarlet Crusaders, trapped in the Plaguelands, has to fend for themselves when Tyr's Hand is destroyed by the Argent Crusade.


The pale orange haze of the Plaguelands was a taint upon the sky and upon the ground as well. With every breath he took in this dead land, Scarlet Commander Emil Jarot felt as though he were corrupting his body. Indeed, it was possible that he and his men were corrupting themselves just by their very presence in these lands. Though the original Plague of Undeath had been all but dissipated by now, the Scourge had still set up numerous plague spreaders and plague cauldrons throughout these cursed lands.

And yet, this was where they belonged. No matter what the land was called then, it was still Lordaeron. It was still home. And as battered and broken as the Scarlet Crusade was, especially now, it was still their duty to reclaim it, as futile as it seemed now.

Jarot was intimate with the land, at the very least. The countless battles that took place on this land, even before the Plague. From Tol Barad to Hillsbrad. From Dun Modr to Alterac. Even back during the Second War, he had never seen such devastation as he saw in the Plaguelands. It was as thought death had claimed the land itself.

He dared not speak it aloud in front of the men, but Jarot knew the reality and gravity of the situation they found themselves in. He could not remember how long it had been since a routine patrol with his trainees into the Plaguelands had become a fight for survival with no relief in sight. After so long, the hows and whys had become like a blur inside the senior Crusader's mind.

In reality, while it was their duty to take back Lordaeron for humanity, the more prominent reason was that there was nowhere left for them to go. The Monastery had fallen into infighting, but the reports were mixed on whether it was the work of a rebellious group of Crusaders or the work of the undead that called themselves "Forsaken". No matter which path they took, be it further northeast, toward the ruined forests of Quel'thalas, to Stratholme, or even back west, to the relative safety of the Monastery or the city of Andorhal, they would have to contend with the Argent Crusade.

Jarot frowned. Even they, in their isolation, had heard whispers about the death of their hated enemy, the Lich King, that it had been Tirion Fordring and a group of adventurers that had destroyed him. With their sword. With the Scarlets' sword. Ashbringer. And the world praised them. Defenders of the Light. Kingslayers. The Light of Dawn. Rubbish, as far as Jarot was concerned. They, too, had heard the horrifc tales of the southlands. The villages of Southshore and Hillsbrad. The entire nation of Gilneas. All of them victims of the Forsaken, whether it be through a Forsaken-engineered new Plague or angelic demons called the Val'kyr. And all the while, the Argent Crusade turned a blind eye, as though indifferent to the suffering. And even as the Scarlets made strides against the incursions of the undead, Scourge and Forsaken alike, elements within the Argents insisted on their destruction.

Defenders of the Light, indeed.

He turned his attention back toward the white walls and towers in the distance, yet closer than ever. After pushing this far and after so long, they had almost reached the safety of Tyr's Hand, the last Scarlet stronghold in the Plaguelands. They would be able to recover and regroup. Of the fifteen he had left with, there were only six of them left now. Save for Jarot himself, all of them had been mere trainees when they left. The horrors of the Plaguelands had forced them to grow up quickly. Those that had not made it this far, their bodies had been burned until even the most talented necromancer would throw up their hands, say "Bother this nonsense" and give up.

Jarot's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. His hand immediately went to the hilt of his broadsword as they drew closer. He relaxed when the visage of Scout Masden come into view. Almost immediately, he knew that something was wrong. The black-haired girl was clearly shaken, yet trying her best to control her trembling hands. Her eyes were wide and alert, and her chest rose and fell in quick, short bursts.

He drew in a breath, almost to brace himself against what he was certain would be bad news. They were far enough away from the rest of the group, but he still kept his voice low and quiet, "Report. Were you able to deliver our message?"

"S-sir..." Masden struggled to keep her voice steady, "They've... th-they've all been turned, sir. Th-they're all... a-all undead."

The breath escaped Jarot's mouth in shock, as though an Orc had punched him in the gut. His mind whirled. It didn't seem possible. Lord Valdelmar was one of the most capable leaders the Crusade had ever known. His second, Commander Marjhan, was as formidable in battle as she was devoted to the Light.

"A-and..."

Masden's voice brought him back to reality again as the girl fought to control herself. He frowned, gripping her shoulder tightly, "Calm yourself, sister. Tell me everything."

Masden swallowed and closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed, and she spoke again, "...The Argent Crusade is already making strikes against it."

"Of course they are." he grumbled, running a gauntleted hand through his grayed hair.

"Sir?"

"Never mind." he shook his head, "...you've done well, sister. Sit and rest for now."

The girl nodded, still a bit shaky, "Y-yes, sir..."

As Masden quietly joined the rest of the Crusaders, Jarot continued to stare across the dead plains toward what used to be their safe haven. Tyr's Hand had fallen. He knew that even if some had survived the undeath that came upon them, it would not spare them from the blades of the Argent Crusade.

He could hear the footsteps come up behind him and knew it could only be one man. The only one he had been able to confide in. It was as though it were clockwork. "Tell me, Brother Regule, how it is that you know when I have heard dire news."

Glades Regule, a handsome blonde youth, stood behind him, hands folded behind his back. "You have always had your ways, even back when you served my family, milord. You keep your face hidden, so as to not disturb others with your emotions, whether to get their hopes up or let them down."

Jarot couldn't help but shake his head, "You always were an observant lad."

Glades bowed his head slightly, "I try."

The older man let out a short sigh, "We've come to an impasse, lad. And this time, I cannot hold the truth from them."

The youth nodded quietly. "Will you tell them? Or shall I?"

"I will." Jarot said, lifting his face to give another glance toward Tyr's Hand, even as the sounds of battle began to reach his ears. Offering a silent prayer to the Light for the swift passage of his fellow Crusaders, he turned from the vista to face his troops.

His eyes scanned their faces. Apprehension. Fear. Sadness. Despair. He desperately searched within himself to find some words that could ease their pain. That could ease his pain. But there were none. At long last, they deserved to hear the truth.

"My brothers. My sisters." he spoke firmly, "It was my fondest hope that I would be able to stand here before you now, to announce that we would be able to move forward into Tyr's Hand, that we could take the rest that every one of us has earned in our time out in the Plaguelands."

He paused a moment, trying to choose his next words. "Unfortunately," he continued steadily, "time makes fools and liars of us all. Tyr's Hand is lost."

He could almost feel their spirit shattering with his words. It took him a moment to realize that it was, in fact, his own.

"What will become of us now?" spoke up Westrin, a recruit that had come from the southlands.

Indeed, what would become of them now? Jarot was silent for a long time, thoughts moving at a mile a minute. But he couldn't hold back the largest crushing realization.

"I do not know." he said, "But know this: the seven of us are the last remnants of the true Scarlet Crusade. And in that, we are the last remnants of true humanity. We are pure. Holy. Righteous."

His gaze went across his troops again as he continued, "We are in desperate times, this is true. But we will not make deals with the undead, as do those of the Argent Crusade. We will not rely upon other races, as do those of the new Alliance."

Jarot folded his hands behind his back, "I know it has not been easy. And it will only get harder from here. But I urge you, here and now - if any of you have been sinned against by another among us, forgive them. If there are grudges amongst you, let them pass, as does water under a bridge. Come together." He shook his head, "We cannot afford to let our petty grievances hold us in place as the tides of darkness threaten to swallow us whole."

The Crusaders glanced about each other, apprehension still evident among them, as he continued, "We will move forward, as humanity has done after every crisis it has faced. That we have survived everything up to this point proves that we have the Light's blessing. It proves that WE are the future of humanity."

His voice grew soft as he finished, "We musn't lose sight of that. Ever. We are the future. ...now. Let us pray for our brothers and sisters."

Commander Jarot knelt down before them. One by one, they followed suit, murmuring chants of prayers and supplications as the sounds of fighting in Tyr's Hand died down. Slowly, the words of prayer disappeared into the hazy orange sky as the realization sunk in.

Now they were alone.


End file.
